


A Dash of Wind Across a Rose Petal

by barbex



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, fenhawke - Freeform, romantic as fuck, romantic dancing, short piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 14:03:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11761443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbex/pseuds/barbex
Summary: Hawke's mother holds a ball and Hawke hates everything about it. Until Fenris teaches her how to dance.





	A Dash of Wind Across a Rose Petal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hollyand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyand/gifts).



> Written for a prompt on tumblr by hollyand-writes:
> 
>  
> 
> _F!Fenhawke prompt: “With my help, your flirting will be much more socially acceptable.”_
> 
>  
> 
> I'm not used to writing short things but I managed to beat the Curse Of The Elaborate Backstory down for this one.

* * *

Why, oh why had she encouraged her mother to give a party like that. No, not a party, a ball. A ball! Hawke is still trying to get used to being rich at all but her mother has embraced the riches of the nightmarish expedition like she's never been a malnourished refugee, begging to be let into the city gates. 

Now she is holding court at the fireplace, laughing as some wealthy widower is flirting with her. She is dressed in a glittering gown that would have paid for the whole ship fare from Lothering to this city. 

Hawke is currently questioning if the trip was worth it at all if it has to end with her being trapped in layers upon layers of starched folds. As much as the dress tries to show all of her humble cleavage, it also has a high collar, starched to the point of feeling like wood and it is scratching her chin whenever she turns her head. 

Because of that, she has to turn her whole body to address the young man who offers his name and a glass of white wine. She would prefer red wine but apparently, red wine is too strong for ladies and it was hard enough to convince the young man to bring her any wine at all.

She takes a sip and puts on her nicest smile as she addresses the nervous young man. "Serah Desjardin, was it?"

"Desjardins, Serah Hawke, Marlon Desjardins" he repeats, emphasizing the S at the end. "Of the Desjardins of Lydes, Orlais. You might come across that name again some time, as my family is extensive and keen on travelling."

"That is wonderful."

The young man looks at her with his glass of red wine stuck half way on its way to his lips. "What is?"

"Travelling?" Hawke answers, heat crawling up her neck. This is the third young man, trying to strike up a conversation with her and he at least brought her a glass of wine, so she is trying her best, but... she knows that she's failing. "Travelling is so rewarding, to see what Thedas is made of, the people, the land..."

Desjardins takes a big gulp of his wine and Hawke sips again, a tiny sip with her lips pursed. She's adhering to the clear instructions by her mother that a distinguished daughter of the House of Amell does A) not drink Ale and B) only takes the tiniest sips. With pursed lips. There was a whole lecture about lips and the correct pursing thereof and Hawke is pretty sure that she will get cramps around her mouth tonight from all the pursing.

The young man has emptied his glass — oh how she envies him — and thankfully hides his burp behind a hand. "Well, travelling in Thedas is not quite as romantic as you seem to think. Half of Thedas is fleeing from the Blight or something and you can't stop the carriage for five minutes anywhere without some dirty child or knifeear begging you for food."

Red spots appear in her vision. "How unfortunate for the people who had made a living in the country, growing the food we all eat, that they didn't have the means to stay on their farms." She has to call on all of her self control to not punch him in the face for 'knifeear'.

"Yes, it's unfortunate but there's plenty of ways to get to places like Kirkwall without harassing innocent travellers — "

— the stem of Hawke's wineglass snaps in half between her fingers and the bulb tips over, falls, and shatters on the ground. Shards scatter all over her feet and her silken shoes. Small spots of blood appear where a shard has cut the delicate material and pierced the skin on her feet.

Desjardins stares at her feet with a look of disgust and then turns his nose up and raises his hand. "Servant? Servant, please."

The remains of the glass stem crunch in her hand as she gets ready to punch that nose all the way to the Deep Roads. But a hand on her arm and a deep and calming voice in her ear stops her.

"It is unadvisable to punch one's guests with a fist full of broken glass," Fenris murmurs into her ear.

"Are you sure?" she replies through clenched teeth.

"Very," Fenris says with a chuckle. He takes her arm and leads her out of the ballroom into the kitchen. He holds her hand over the kitchen sink and opens it slowly. The white glove is already colored in a bright red from the cuts in her hand, just like the tops of her shoes. Fenris pulls the long glove down from her elbow and pumps ice cold water over it.

"Mistress Hawke!" Orana yells out when she sees the blood rinsing off.

"Not mistress, Orana," Hawke says quietly.

"I'm sorry, Serah, but what happened?"

"Nothing terrible, I was trying to flirt with some orlesian kid and he turned out to be an ass." She slips out of the shoes and hands them to Orana with the stained glove. "I don't know if you can fix this somehow but I would be grateful if you could. My mother is going to make me chase the cows when she sees these shoes like that."

"Of course, Serah Hawke, I know just what to do." She gathers everything in a towel and hides it in a lower cupboard. "I'll get to it after the party, so that your mother doesn't get suspicious if she doesn't see me bring in the food."

"Good thinking, Orana, thank you." Hawke tiptoes to the other side of the kitchen, to the stairs that will take her up to her room without having to cross the ballroom again. Fenris follows her, his bare feet just as quiet as hers. "I could almost be a Rogue, don't you think?" Hawke says, just as she trips over a broom and sends it down the stairs with loud clattering.

"You'd be perfect for diversion tactics," Fenris deadpans.

Hawke sighs. "With my luck, this will not be the last catastrophe of the evening." 

"I would hardly call a fallen broom a catastrophe." Fenris follows her in her room and closes the door behind him. 

"No, I meant that stupid, arrogant, good for nothing, rich stink nose of an orlesian cow's ass down there." She throws off the starched jacket with its stiff collar and vows to herself to burn it later. The dress looks better like this anyway, it falls softly over her shoulders and the red fabric is a nice contrast to her dark hair. In her closet she finds another pair of flimsy shoes. She can only hope that her mother will be distracted by all the glittering nobles around her and not look at her feet too closely.

"What is it with you and the cows?" Fenris has an amused smile on his lips as he stands there next to her door like a guard.

"Fereldan farmgirl, remember?" She slips into the shoes and crosses over to him. Stopping in front of him, she stares into his green eyes. She is slightly taller than him but she always feels dwarfed by his control and strength. "I guess, I have to get back down there now."

He swallows, his eyes dropping to her lips before meeting her eyes again. "Yes, probably." He smiles at her. "But you might want to avoid flirting with orlesians." 

She groans. "I could arm wrestle all of them in my sleep but talking to them?"

Fenris chuckles. "Maybe I can help."

"Really?"

"At least, with my help, your flirting will be much more socially acceptable than that."

Hawke clenches her fists and sighs. "Alright, what should I talk about?" 

Fenris grins. "First and foremost, you should not talk but listen. Make the man feel important by listening intently, asking him questions about what he does." 

"But I don't care!" she groans out. "They're all so boring."

"Ask me."

"About what?"

Fenris bows towards her, one leg stepping behind him, his back perfectly straight. Hawke is astonished how perfectly aristocratic he looks.

"Serah Hawke, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Fenris. It is a pleasure to finally meet you."

Hawke struggles to get her knees to bend to the kind of curtsy that her mother has taught her. "The pleasure is all mine, Serah Fenris. What brings you to Kirkwall?"

Fenris gives her an encouraging smile and then falls back into his role. He stands straight, his head held high and it is a stark contrast to his usual stance of being ready to fight at all times. "I'm collecting books on elven and Tevinter history and I'm hoping to find a few rare pieces for my collection here."

"Oh, how interesting," Hawke says. "Have you found anything yet?" 

Fenris interlaces his fingers and nods. "Yes, I saw a few promising places at the market this morning and I plan to return to it tomorrow. Would you like to accompany for that?"

Hawke isn't sure if this is part of the game or if he's really asking her to go with him, just them, without the others. It would be a first. "Yes, I would love to," she rushes to say before the moment passes.

Fenris blushes and opens his mouth but closes it again without speaking.

"Ehm," Hawke stammers, "what do I do if I don't know what to say anymore?"

Fenris swallows. "You could always ask for a dance."

Hawke holds her hand towards him. "Would you like to dance with me, Serah Fenris?"

"It would be my pleasure," he says and his voice has a new rasp to it. He takes her hand and holds it out to the side and wraps his other arm around her waist, pulling her close. The music from the ballroom is muted but still loud enough for them to hear. 

He takes a careful step forward and Hawke lets herself be steered by his lithe form pressed against her. He leads her in a slow circle around herself, holding her so close that she couldn't stray away from his steps if she wanted.

But she doesn't want to step away. She doesn't care for the party downstairs, where her mother is probably already looking for her. She wants to stay here, in Fenris' strong arms, guided around her room to the faint sound of music. She leans into him, closing her eyes as her cheek rests against his ear.

She has never danced like this before.

The music stops and Fenris twirls her out of his arms and pulls her back again. She laughs, slightly dizzy from the spin and he holds her so that she doesn't stumble. She catches a glimpse of his eyes and her heart stops for a beat. She can't put into words what she sees in them but they pull her towards him like a force. 

Their lips connect, softly, fleeting, barely more than a dash of wind across a rose petal. 

They both freeze. 

It can't be more, not now, they both know. But it's more than she has ever hoped for.

"We must go back downstairs," he mumbles against her lips.

"I know." She lets her lips stay open, softly pressing forward. She feels him hesitate but then he presses back, his lips open like hers. 

The music downstairs swells up again and the moment shatters. They both step back, and Hawke takes a deep breath. She holds out her arm for Fenris to take. 

He wordlessly takes it and leads her out of the room and down the stairs. When a group of elegantly dressed men turn around to look at her, her lets go of her arm and retreats into the background like a bodyguard. 

He watches her, how she charms the men, her flirting obviously improved. Occasionally she glances over to him, giving him a smile that nobody else ever gets from her.

That is enough. It's more than he has ever thought possible for someone like him.


End file.
